


there's a drought in the fountain of youth

by amorremanet



Series: give me a long kiss goodnight [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Backstory, Best Friends, Brother Feels, Brother-Sister Relationships, Character Study, Child Abuse, Codependency, Control Issues, Edmund Lahey's gross outdated ideas about all things gender, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Family Drama, Family Dynamics, Family Feels, Family Issues, Full Moon, Gen, Gender Roles, Hale Family Feels, Headcanon, High School, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Minor Canonical Character(s), Overprotective, POV Derek Hale, Past Derek Hale/Paige, Physical Abuse, Pre-Series, Protective Older Brothers, Running Away, Slice of Life, Slurs, Universe Alteration, Unresolved Tension, Verbal Abuse, Violently Devoted And Vaguely Codependent Siblings, Werewolf Politics, Werewolf Senses, of Camden and Isaac's mother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-19 10:01:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3606048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/pseuds/amorremanet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Whatever's on the horizon, it's something big. And what hope is there, really, that they can handle it? They can't even handle high school.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	there's a drought in the fountain of youth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zethsaire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zethsaire/gifts).



> Written for Zethsaire in round three of TWRPE, and… I think I can safely say that this is not what I intended to write at the outset of things. But… then I lost control of my life and my writing process more than a little bit, and graduate school and family drama both have a way of derailing everything all at once, and there was too much backstory to set up before I could get into the parts that I really wanted to get to, with the chronic illness, permanent injury, and gratuitous Slavic mythology… So, with the caveat that this is by no means done as a series, I hope that it's at least somewhat enjoyable for you, Zethsaire. ♡
> 
> As yet, the titles going on here are all cribbed from Green Day songs: this fic's title comes from "[Hitchin' A Ride](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8hhGH7d8qRw)" and the series' overall title is from a lyric in, "[Give Me Novocaine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZKAwIwjHwZI)."

When Derek begs off early from the dinner table, all he wants is to get it over with. Quick, quiet, clean, so he can go wait things out in his bedroom, where there’s less of a chance that he’ll get ferreted out. Less of a chance that someone will catch the scent of what he means to do.

There’s some fussing from Dad about it: “Are you sure you’re feeling alright? You’re looking pretty… y’know, green around the gills? More than usual for this time of the month, I mean. Not just — you don’t just look pale or on edge or anything, so really. I mean it, son: are you sure you’re feeling alright?”

Worse than the fussing, there’s protest from Aunt Nora, Dad’s sister, who thinks that she knows what’s best for everyone: “What the Hell do you even _do_ in your room all the time, boy? I know the witch business put a damper on things with your mother and her brother, but don’t you think you should get back together with that Paige girl? Or at least go out and do something with your friends. Or should I say, ‘ _friend_ ’? No really: is it singular, Derek, or plural? Your little sister always says it’s singular because nobody but that _Lahey_ boy would put up with you for long enough to be your friend.

“But anyway, the point is that you can’t just spend your life holed up in your bedroom and watching the world pass you by. You have to actually go out there and _live in it_ at some point. Just keep it in mind: you won’t be young forever. Not even if you _are_ a werewolf. And there’s no life to be lived inside your damned bedroom, so… I don’t know. Go out and find something to _do_ with yourself, for God’s sakes.”

As soon as he gets upstairs and locks the door behind him, Derek allows himself a single, nearly silent laugh. _Go out there and live in the world, Derek_ — she wouldn’t say that if she knew about the already-packed up duffel underneath his bed. Or if she knew that Derek had actually been running away, all the times when Laura’s made excuses for him, told the family stories about how he’s had class projects due with friends and had to sleep over at their houses.

Nora wouldn’t run her mouth off if Derek didn’t plan on staying in the house tonight, never mind how he’s cutting out _just_ so Peter will have to find a different source of entertainment on the Full. Derek can go back to being Peter’s amusement next month, but this month… No. There’s no way that Derek can manage that this month. For now, the only choice is clear, and once he has the duffel in his hands, Derek sits down on his windowsill, focuses his hearing and tries to scope things out.

Getting out of here tonight is his top priority — the only priority that matters, even — and there’s no room for any fuck ups.

*** * * * * ***

Waiting is the hardest part of all of this. Just like any night when Derek can’t stand to be at home, can’t even sit in his own room without the skin-crawl feeling that _something’s_ wrong and he can’t make it right or be anywhere near the house until it’s fixed again. Leaning against the window, listening to all the sounds of the house around him, staring at the broken twigs, the dirty ground, and the clutter of dead leaves, Derek barely breathes. Where it’s necessary, he even holds off on it entirely.

It doesn’t protect him — not really, not in any ways that _count_ — but it keeps him quiet. It keeps him in control of his lungs. It helps make sure that they don’t betray him to his family’s hypersensitive hearing.

_Any minute now,_ he keeps telling himself. Even after that mantra wears a little more than thin and starts sounding like too much to hope for, Derek repeats it, mentally reciting the words at the same slow and steady pace that he tries to keep his breathing evened out at: _Any minute now. Mom and Peter should be leaving any minute now. Any minute now and they’ll be gone. They can’t stay here all night. Their thing’s important, and Laura has to be there too, and they have to clear out pretty soon, don’t they? So I’ll be fine to just go through with this, any minute now. Any minute now. Any minute now…_

Why there's a meeting of Alphas and their seconds on a freaking Wednesday night, Derek has no actual idea. Guesses, sure, but no actual insight. Things have been tense for months now, ever since fall, when Gerard Argent gassed Deucalion’s pack and nearly killed them all; ever he since took his flash arrows and burned out Deucalion's eyes.

The vet couldn’t fix Deucalion’s sight, but as for the Peacemaker’s _vision_? Well, Gerard couldn’t ever take that away from him… or so says Peter, always sarcastically and quoting Mom — who most likely genuinely believes that version of the story. Or at least, she wants to make it the only one that matters.

So, now everyone’s regrouping. Getting in touch with friends and old associates. Putting them in contact with each other, if they haven’t been before. Trying to build up some kind of Lord only knows what. Whenever Derek’s wanted to see Mom lately, she’s been on the phone with someone — Alphas whose names Derek’s never even heard before, or betas and Emissaries who have to talk to Mom for their Alphas — and he must have heard, _“In a minute, sweetheart. I’m busy,”_ more times in the past few months than he’s heard it in his entire life so far.

Whatever’s on their horizon, it’s something big. Maybe this project Mom and Deucalion have taken on could change everything.

No one will say _how_ they could change everything, just that there’s never been a movement for inter-pack solidarity this large and that werewolves have to look out for each other. Now more than ever. After what Gerard did, it’s clear to werewolves everywhere that their position’s threatened, that they’re all in danger, no matter who they’ve killed or haven’t. Packs on their own aren’t enough anymore. Even the larger groups aren’t safe by themselves. They all have to stick together, build ties, make sure they have each other covered. They can’t protect themselves alone and so they need alliances like this.

That’s why Derek can’t even run away for too long. Since he can’t leave yet anyway, he rifles through the duffel, triple and quadruple checking everything he’s packed, just in case he stays out of the house for longer than intended… All the clothes, his school supplies (at least, the ones he didn’t stash inside his locker), the money that he took from Dad and Peter so he won’t have to use his copy of Mom’s credit card (she’ll see any charges before Derek even knows what hit him, plus it leaves a paper trail. But Dad and Peter won’t notice that the money’s gone at all. They’ll just assume they spent it on their own; Laura taught Derek that when he was seven).

It’s just for the next few nights, just for the full moon, but Derek doesn’t know. Can never know. Everything about the situation gets unpredictable when he tries to hold it up to scrutiny. He can’t leave for too long in the first place but he could get lucky. With everything that he has ready, Derek could stay out of the house a whole week, maybe even ten days if he really stretched everything, if he maybe got a little bit creative. He just can’t stay gone for too long. He can’t stay gone for long enough to attract any notice outside of his own family, _especially_ not if Mom has to talk to Doctor Deaton or word gets out to the other packs somehow.

So much would fall apart if Derek fucked up like that. Not just for him, but for Mom as well. For Laura and Cora, for Dad, for Peter, for all the Alphas who Mom’s working with on whatever project it is that they won’t talk about where he’s had a chance to hear them.

Leaving home for real would make Derek an Omega. One of the Hales, sure, but an Omega nonetheless, and one who has a target painted on his back. Even worse, leaving for too long could undermine everything that Mom and Deucalion have been working for since last fall.

_What would the other packs think?_ That’s what it comes back to, really. If anyone else found out that Derek ran away from home, let alone why he did it, he’d undermine Mom’s entire image. Tarnish how everyone else sees her. And they can’t have that. It’s one of the last things in the world they can afford.

So much rests on the idea of Talia Hale, perfect Alpha, perfect mother, the most perfect and the safest bet: connections, alliances, peace treaties and the places they could lead the packs, fragile partnerships still in their infancies… The whole union of packs that’s forming, the attempted solidarity it represents… Maybe Mom can’t shoulder everything here, but she certainly can’t live and let live, either. That’s where everyone else comes in, the knife’s edge that Mom’s teetering on: everything they do and are reflects on Mom. If they slip, then Mom slips, and if Mom slips, then someone gets their throat slit — which might not even be that metaphorical.

One wrong move and Derek could ruin all the work the Alphas have put in so far, ruin everything Mom’s done.

So could Laura, for that matter, if she keeps saying that she won’t accept the Alpha mantle when their mother dies.

But Derek running away could ruin everything so much faster, if he made the mistake of staying gone. After all: what kind of Alpha would scare away her own son? What kind of Alpha would make her heir and daughter want nothing to do with their family’s history? If she can’t do right by her children, then what will she allow to happen to the betas who _don’t_ share her blood? And, even with her Hale family legacy behind her, who in their right mind would want to ally with an Alpha who might lead them into Hell? How can they be sure that she’s a good bet, someone they can trust with their own betas, if her own family life looks like ashes and rubble?

Focusing on the noises in the house should be more helpful, but mostly, Derek only finds it exhausting. Tedious. Something that he needs to do, but that ultimately, doesn’t yield much of anything. There’s Dad and Cora down in the den, watching _The Land Before Time_ because she gets bored by all the Disney princess movies, and prefers dinosaurs so much that Dad calls her his little velociraptor.

There’s one of Derek’s cousins and Damien, an unrelated beta, negotiating how they’ll share a room after Damien moves in next week, and what sorts of ground rules need to be established.

There’s Mom and Peter in her office, purposefully keeping their voices down so that Derek can tell they’re talking but he can’t make out the words — it sounds important, but then, it always does.

There’s Laura in her room, alone, sighing and flipping through something, probably some dusty book of lore, another reading assignment to prepare her for coming into her red-eyed inheritance…

Then, finally, something useful: Laura’s book slams shut, and almost immediately after that, come a slamming door and the sound of footsteps in the hall.

Derek perks up, listens in — they’re not the soft, heavy thumps that Dad’s never been able to lighten up on. They don’t belong to any of Derek’s cousins, or any of Mom’s betas who aren’t blood family. She’s trying to cover up, trying to sound like someone else, but Laura’s the one stomping in the corridor. That’s the black-eye, concussion impact of her favorite boots smacking the floorboards, belting out how something heavy’s on her mind. Not for the better, from the sound of it.

She pauses outside of Derek’s room and waits, takes a few deep breaths. Maybe she’s thinking about knocking, maybe she isn’t. Maybe she knows what’s in his head to do and has a few words of sisterly wisdom to offer before letting him go through with it. Or maybe she wants Derek to come to her, and if he doesn’t, then she wants to pass this lapse off as taking a few moments to breathe in deeply and get herself steady before she has to hold her own and demand respect from people who probably don’t want to give it to her.

Doesn’t matter, though. If there’s any hidden message in the. Soon enough, the chance for anything between them evaporates: another door creaks open and Peter’s soft, slithering steps join her, bringing along his distinctive stench like cleaning chemicals and cheap cologne. They address each other but keep any conversation terse and the air crackles electric between them with everything they don’t say aloud — not when there’s a chance that Mom could hear them doing it, anyway.

After all, they have to keep her happy — and any family squabbling wouldn’t do that. Especially not when they’ve both got all manner of bottled up threats and accusations. Every second they spend alone with each other is another chance for them to slip out of what they pass off as niceties — _“A leather jacket, Laura? **Really?** You could easily dress yourself with more style than that. A little bit of panache couldn’t hurt… You **are** a Hale woman, after all. Why bother with leather jackets instead of following your own bliss?” “ **You’re** wearing a leather jacket, **dear** uncle. Besides, at least the other packs won’t look at my shirt and wonder why I’m peacocking instead of taking things seriously”_ — and into the soft, venomous places they go otherwise.

At this point, they never even miss a beat in shifting from that sort of low-key bickering to, _“I know what you are, Peter, and I know what you’ve done. I know why you’re so supposedly devoted to my little brother. I know everything you’re hiding from my mother, I know most of what you and Derek don’t want her knowing… Even the parts he hasn’t told me himself? I know what you’ve done to him, and as soon as I have proof enough for Talia, I’ll fight her for the right to **kill you myself**.”_

The thought alone makes Derek want to puke. Not more fighting over him. He can’t handle them doing any more of that. Not tonight, anyway.

But before anything can start between her heir-apparent and her second, Mom strides out to join them. Smooth, careful, refusing to insist upon herself because she’s Talia Hale and that sort of thing’s beneath her. Everyone already knows her and whole rooms fall over themselves to give her their praise and attention, in the hopes of being noticed or who even knows what. She asks if there are any last matters to attend to, and from then, it’s all a countdown…

_Ten, nine_ — Laura and Peter agree: they’re ready to head out, and it’s time to leave. They follow Mom down the corridor in unison, even slipping into lock-step, 

( _“I can’t help noticing that you seem perturbed, niece. Perhaps you’re realizing that_

_“And I can’t help noticing that, as ever, you seem incapable of making observations that are actually useful. Or interesting. Or worth my time. Or anyone else’s, either. You’re probably contributing to the heat death of the universe by not shutting up.”_

_“There’s that sullenness again. It won’t get you anywhere, you know. Neither will that attitude problem. If you don’t watch out, you_ **_could_ ** _be setting yourself up for who even_ **_knows_ ** _what sort of awful things.”_

_“And if you went anywhere with an actually competent Sheriff’s department or even a half-mediocre Neighborhood Watch? So, basically, if you went anywhere else_ ** _but_** _Beacon Hills? You’d be arrested on the spot for essentially everything about you, so here we are. Guess we’re stuck with each other. Unless you_ ** _want_** _to go get arrested for breathing around a law enforcement officer who actually_ ** _does their job_** _— and by all means?_ ** _Please do_** _.”_ )

_Eight, seven_ — they stop to get their coats and shoes. Which, naturally, can’t just be simple. Hales never let anything stay simple.

( _“Laura’s right, Peter. You_ ** _are_** _stuck with each other._ ** _Both_** _of you. I can’t have my heir_ ** _or_** _my second at my side throughout this process; I’ll need things from the pair of you, and so will all the packs. So, if you care at all about the survival of our species,_ ** _both_** _of you will get the hostility out of your systems before we get to the meeting, and then you will keep. it. to. your. selves.”_

_“I scarcely think that I’m being untoward with Laura, sweet sister. If she’s_ **_really_ ** _going to be your first in line heir, then she_ **_ought_ ** _to display the behavior of an Alpha. Perhaps, she ought to take her position more seriously, instead of indulging herself in this adolescent, caustic nonsense.”_

_“And if_ **_you’re_ ** _going to keep being Mom’s second, then maybe_ **_you_ ** _ought to contribute — oh, I don’t know —_ **_anything_ ** _of value to the rest of the pack? Not even the packs, plural, Peter. Just try actually contributing to our_ **_own_ ** _pack. Instead of having a temper tantrum any time I don’t lie down and roll over for you_ _because you’re my mother’s brother and_ **_were_ ** _first in line, once. You can’t crack a whip at me like you do with Derek—”_

_“And there she goes with her unfounded accusations again, Talia. She’s been saying that I mistreat your son for—”_

_“All I_ ** _said_** _was that you have an easy time making him shut up and listen to you. It’s kind of funny how your mind went right to you_ ** _victimizing_** _Derek. Right, Mom? It’s_ ** _funny_** _, yeah?”_ )

_Six, five_ — Dad asks when they’ll be back, and Mom says that she doesn’t know. It’s an important meeting, they have a lot of ground to cover. At least it can’t last all night. She kisses Cora, tells her to be the woman of the house while she’s out. _“Make sure your father and your brother , Sweetheart. God knows they need_ ** _some_** _woman keeping them in line.”_

(Perpetually unamused and too serious for her eight years, Cora no doubt sulks and pulls one of her lemon-sucking faces. _“What line? Daddy, what lines is Mom_ ** _talking_** _about? Like play lines? Like, ‘to be or stupidity?’”_

Dad’s indulgent smile comes in, loud and clear, as he tells her. _“It’s a figure of speech, little warrior princess. She just means that she wants you to make sure we behave ourselves. So don’t let us get into trouble. That’s all.”_

_“But you’re_ **_never_ ** _in trouble and Derek’s in it_ **_all the time_** _. Aunt Nora says he’s never gonna get any better ‘cause he’s a hopeless case, probably, and I think—”_

A cacophony of nervous laughter. _“Your brother isn’t a hopeless case, Penthesilea. He’s just sixteen and… probably confused. Nobody has anything figured out at sixteen.”_

_“Well, **I’m** gonna have things figured out at sixteen. And if you ask **_me_** , it’s **all** probably ‘cause of his **stupid friend** who acts like **anybody** invited him to anything ever, just ‘cause Derek likes him and he’s on the **stupid swim team** —”_

More nervous laughter, and a barrage of, _“Don’t worry, Honey. We’ll be fine. Cora’s probably just tired, you know how she always gets when she’s tired”_ -style ass-covering. Derek can smell the reek of Dad’s desperation from here. It smells just like every other time he likes to pretend that whatever they have going on here is a family and not a cluster-fuck or worse.)

_Four, three_ — Mom kisses Dad goodbye, he pecks Laura on the cheek (more insistently when she huffs and tries to pull away), and Peter sighs, the roll of his eyes audible as he reminds everyone that they can’t keep the other Alphas waiting. Not with so much riding on this little project.

( _“Wouldn’t that be rather impolite of us, sweet sister? Keeping them waiting then they’ve come all this way for your input?”_

Laura’s sigh claws its way out of her chest with a tires-on-gravel sound. _“Yeah, because Alpha, ‘I didn’t spend six years getting a PhD in the Classics to be called_ ** _Mister_** _Deucalion, thank you’  Auerbach, PhD is totally going to throw a fit about Mom, oh I don’t know,_ ** _actually_** _being a mom to her children—”_

_“Niece, I think you might be understating the importance of the situation here—”_

_“And I’m pretty sure you’re pulling some kind of_ Titus Andronicus _bullshit out of your ass even though you_ ** _know_** _that they won’t start without Mom and the worst Deucalion’s do to anybody on our side is go off about the fucking_ Orestia _again. Like we haven’t heard his version of every Greek tragedy ever written a_ ** _thousand_** _fucking times before.”_

Mom finally jolts into things with, _“_ ** _Language_** _, Laura Elizabeth. You’re the Heir-Apparent to a centuries’ old dynasty,_ ** _not_** _some unwashed, half-illiterate, guttersnipe **Omega**. You know what befits your station in our community, now _**_display_** _those qualities like the future Alpha that you are or else you can stay_ ** _home_** _.”_ )

_Two, one_ — the front door closes behind them and three sets of feet tread down the steps, crunch over the blanketing of twigs and dead leaves, head deeper into the preserve. Even with Mom there to keep the pair of them in line, Peter and Laura keep hissing and sniping and huffing each other. At least their voices quickly go indistinct and if he focuses hard enough, Derek can _almost_ tune them out in favor of listening to the house’s own ambient noise and the beating of his heart instead.

Except that they’re leaving… they’re _leaving_ , and…

_Blast off_ — as soon as he can’t hear their footsteps or make out any of their voices, Derek bolts. Tosses his bags over his shoulders and mad dashes down the stairs, out the door, over to his bike, where it’s slumped against the garage. Dad doesn’t notice anything. He’s finally dragging Cora through their bedtime rituals, so he isn’t there to bother or give half of a fuck about what his son is doing with himself.

Not that he’d notice on any other day. Derek’s under his Dad’s radar more often than not. There’s a certain freedom in that fact.

Free — Derek’s free to take off — and he doesn’t even try to hold back in pedaling. It’s too late for anyone to be out. No one can see him going too fast to be a human. He weaves through trees and maneuvers around rocks until the foresting starts thinning out, starts to give way to the more tamed areas that people use for ‘camping trips’ and cookouts. Dirt abruptly turns into the paved road of the highway and Derek follows the twists and turns into downtown Beacon Hills.

If not for the fact that he has somewhere he can go, Derek would be sorely tempted to just stay in town. Try to make his way in urban terrain without someone setting one of the Sheriff’s deputies on him. But he has a place to stay and he’d rather be there than a dumpster.

*** * * * * ***

Veering off down Cherrygrove jerks him away from the darkened storefronts and apartment buildings, the densely packed middle and lower-income homes. They put the houses further apart out here. Because it’s the “good side” of Beacon Hills — the _rich_ side — and the space means that people have more money, which means that no one has to be too close to anyone. It’s all just blank and empty and stiff, too insistent on its own perfection. Derek would never even bother coming here, wading out into the swamp-like reek of greed, and overpriced sterility, and all the lying and snooping and bullshit that these people must get up to in their free time.

At least, he would never even bother if not for the little house that sits at 2341 Hill Way Rd, pretending to be modest as though people on the street can’t see the in-ground backyard pool. More accurately: he’d never bother coming to this side of town if not for Camden Lahey, his best and sometimes only friend.

Usually, everything gets better when Cam’s around, but not tonight. A few long blocks off from the Laheys’, Derek slows his pace and tries to tap into his hearing better. Just so he can try to pick Cam’s house out among all the others — Mr. and Mrs. Martin snapping at each other again, just like the last time Derek made this bike ride. Dr. Mahealani lecturing his son and going on about how Dad’s computer isn’t a puzzle for you to take apart and try to solve this way, Daniel, and what have you been told about not touching other people’s things. The Daehlers discussing when to schedule some upcoming trip to Disneyland and asking their son what he’d want to make a _special_ point of doing. And then, from out of the dark—

“ _Dammit_ , Dad, are you fucking _serious_? What the fuck are you even talking about, just, _‘How about you try telling your little friend to be the **girl** for once?’_ How about you shut up and lay _off_ of him already? What the Hell did Isaac do so wrong _this_ time? Or did you just have a shitty day and come home feeling like you needed to kick your eight-year-old _son_ for some kind of bullshit fuck up that _doesn't exist?_ ”

—and then, from out of the dark, there’s Camden Lahey. Crashing through the night so loudly that Derek can’t believe the humans don’t hear him doing it. (They _must_ not hear it, since no one ever intervenes and considering any alternative explanations doesn't appeal to Derek.)

Cam’s heartbeat is harder to pick out — there are too many other hearts beating in the area, some that Derek knows and even more that are flat out unfamiliar, and Derek’s still not close enough to pick out the distinctive signs of _Cam’s_ — but Derek’s been around Cam when he’s angry. Deliberately missing a point that even Derek can infer without any difficulty means that Cam is probably at the point of digging his fingernails into his palm, trying to keep himself from shaking or twitching when all he wants to do is punch something. All spitting fire and venom and rage that trembles and simmers, barely concealed, underneath the surface level words he’s slinging at his father:

“Personally, I'm betting that you’re full of shit and decided to make yourself feel better by attacking a child who _fucking **trusts** you_ , but I don’t know. I've been wrong before. And I’ll freely, _happily_ admit that I don’t understand how you can even _begin_ thinking that you’re in the right here. Or how you can think that Mom _died_ so you could beat the shit out of your kids. Emotionally _or_ physically.”

Derek skids to a halt at the stop sign and just spends a moment taking deep, slow breaths. Shoving a hand into his jacket pocket and clenching his hand around the heavy, ceramic triskele until he’s sure that he'll break the skin. Reciting Mom’s mantra for the Full in his head as his body shakes from the overwhelming rush of physical exertion and the stress of wanting to go keep Cam safe, while knowing on a deep-set, gut-twisting nausea level that he can’t actually do anything, which only makes everything he’s feeling that much worse.

Righteous indignation’s one thing. Desire to protect the handful of people who Derek chooses to recognize as _Pack_ , the one he made for himself and not the one that got forced upon him? That’s entirely another. And this? Whatever _this_ is in the first place, because Derek has no words for it coming to him offhand? This is an entirely different breed of impulse: feelings mixing up with other feelings, flowing in and out of each other too fast for Derek to fix any names to any of them; muddying each other into some unidentifiable, throbbing mess with a kickback that tastes like heartburn and dry-mouth; and always, always, _always_ burdened down with the deadweight of knowing that there’s approximately nothing he can do right now, not for anybody.

Even if he were at the Laheys’ house already, none of the available options he sees can work without slipping up and showing himself for what he really is, which inherently means that they _**don’t** work_. Revealing that he’s a werewolf is a good way to get himself hunted down and killed. Or worse, it’s a good way to end up driving away the only person, save for Laura and formerly Paige, who actually likes having him around.

So Derek clings hard to the triskele and he keeps going through the words: _Alpha, Beta, Omega… Alpha, Beta, Omega… Alpha, Beta, Omega…_

The worst part, even more than the helplessness, is that Derek can’t even begrudge Cam this rage. Even once he lets go of the triskele and picks back up in pedaling, wishing against hope that Cam will let something go for once in his life and _shut. the. Hell. up._ — even knowing that Cam’s anger issues are liable to provoke all manner of responses from his father — Derek can’t help but understand it. Can’t help knowing that any possible alternatives wold just be worse.

Besides, it’s a familiar part of how Cam deals with things, and more than that, it’s a familiar part of _every_ aspect of Derek’s life. It’s the same kind of rage that Laura has whenever Mom’s not around and she gets into it with Peter, reminding him that she knows what he is and she knows what he’s done, that her Mother keeping Peter in the pack is the only reason why Laura can’t stop him yet, and if Mom ever finally turns her back on Peter — if she ever opens her fucking eyes to the kind of monster she’s been enabling all these years; if she _finally_ lets justice run its course for once — then Laura will be right there waiting, ready to _rip his throat out with her teeth._

It’s a rage that Derek recognizes as unique to older siblings, but doesn’t really understand. Thanks to Dad’s gentle, overprotective doting on her, and more so to her own ferocity, Cora’s never needed much protecting. Not like Derek needs from Laura, and not like Isaac needs from Cam.

“Are you playing _stupid_ with me on purpose now, son?” Mr. Lahey says in that dangerously calm voice, misleading in its casual, even tone. The one with a storm brewing underneath it and barely trying to hide. “How can you even _pretend_ to need something like this explained to you. With the kind of grades you’re pulling? I mean, the problem’s _obvious_ , isn’t it?”

“If by, ‘obvious,’ you mean, ‘completely nonexistent,’ sure. It’s _totally_ obvious.” Cam huffs. This is all just getting started, from the sound of it, and he’s already on a roll. Not content to drop it — any of it — even when he knows better than anyone what could happen if he doesn’t shut up already. “Seriously? As far as I can see it, the only _problem_ here is that you’re trying to give Isaac Hell for _being a **kid**_. And, maybe I’m off base here, but last I checked, _eight year olds are **allowed** to be fucking **kids**._ ”

“Do you _really_ want to take that tone with me right now? Or are we going to have another round of your game where you think you’re clever for contradicting your father about everything under the goddamned sun.”

“No, see, I actually _don’t_ think that I’m clever for contradicting you about everything. I think I'm _contrary_ for contradicting you, even when you need to be contradicted. I thought I was clever for setting up all the timing so you got welcomed home by, ‘Fortunate Son’ and, ‘The I Feel Like I’m Fixin’ To Die Rag’ and all the other greatest hits of your generation’s protest songs. I thought I was clever _and_ giving you a nice reminder of the parts of _your_ so-called War that you like to gloss over as much as possible? Like how it was about the furthest thing from noble, and all the fucking _war crimes_ —”

“Being a little smart-ass with me isn’t going to get my attention off the _real_ problem here. And your brother is the real problem. _You?_ You’re acting out about your plans for after high school. You’re lashing out at me instead of getting your head back out of your ass about what you can actually do with yourself, thinking that _art_ is anything to make a living off of. Taking your _failures_ out on your father, after everything I’ve given for you, _everything_ that I’ve _sacrificed_ for you… If you want to be the problem here, _Camden_ , you’ll have to wait your turn.”

The brief moment of quiet is as worrisome as it is telling. It can’t last more than a heartbeat or two, but Mr. Lahey sighs like just he’s been to Hell and back. As Derek gets closer and his hearing picks up more of the finer details, he can just barely make out the telltale click of Mr. Lahey’s glasses as he snaps the temples and folds them up. _Fuck_ — he never takes them off like that unless it’s really, _really_ bad news for who he’s dealing with — and as Cam’s particular heartbeat starts coming out into itself, Derek just tries to pedal faster. Palpitations are never a good thing to hear — the fluttering sound that comes next and the one noise that makes it seem like Cam’s heart is going too fast and somehow straining just to beat at all…

There’s no time for faking humanity. Derek needs to be there _now_. He needs to pedal so hard, his legs fall off, if that’s what any of this takes.

“No, _soldier_. Last thing I’ve got right now is patience for your attitude problems. Because you know what’s more important than you thinking that you’re better than me, like anyone died and made _you_ the King of Anything? Your _brother_ is more important. And more important right now is how he’s having everything he knows jerked around by letting his friends make him be Spiderman’s girlfriend. And by how his _brother_ just standing by and letting it happen, instead of _protecting him_ , like there’s nothing flat out _sick_ or _wrong_ about letting a boy playing the girl’s part.”

“Yeah, because there’s _totally_ no historical fucking precedent for that, except for, oh, y' _know_ , uh… Basically the entire history of English theatre until the 1700’s or something? And it’s totally not like a guy can grow up watching Judy Garland and Bette Midler and Bernadette Peters with his Mom, getting excited about art, and and _still_ end up trouncing the rest of the swim team, and the soccer team, and… oh… oh, Dad, _wait_ …”

Cam pauses, just for a moment. Just for long enough to the sarcasm and the vitriol to seep into his words as he says, “Wait, though, Dad, I just… Wait a minute, Dad, uh…… Y'know, forgive me if I'm _wrong_ , but… didn't _I_ do that? Didn't I do _literally_ all of that? And again? Correct me if I’m _**wrong**_ — which we _both_ know that I’m **_not_** — but didn’t Mom _encourage_ me in all of this? To make me a more _well-rounded **person**_?”

“And just what in the Hell do you mean by _that_.”

Another beat of silence, and Cam affects an easygoing huff. “Oh _nothing_ ,” he says. “Nothing whatsoever, _sir_. I mean, if you need it spelled out for you like that, I guess I’m trying to say that my _Mom_ didn’t _die_ so you could stomp around and act like Isaac’s fucking _worthless_ over shit that _doesn’t fucking **matter**_.”

That’s when everything drops dead. Not just drops dead, but shatters on the ground, beyond all hope of repair. Even with magic, there’s no fixing it now. Silence yawns open, and it’s abyssal. It’s gaping. It’s empty, and it’s heavy, and it’s dark, and Derek can feel the tension from here. Getting closer to the house is like pedaling into a dank fog with no clear way ahead, and no promise that anyone could make it out alive, much less someone as tiny and cosmically insignificant as a werewolf in high school, in the middle of a small town in California known for mountain lion attacks.

But it’s not the end of anything, the dread that crashes into everything and makes itself at home. It’s not the end because it can’t be, because both Camden and his father are far too fucking stubborn for that.

“And by, ‘doesn’t fucking _matter_ ,’ I mean, ‘things that wouldn’t be a big damn deal if you weren’t the fucking _Neanderthal_ of opinions about _anything he does_.’ Like whether or not he played Gwen Stacy in the backyard, for example. But I’m just speaking hypothetically.”

Even without being there yet — close and increasingly closer, but no cigar just yet — Derek can picture the scene unfolding. He’s eavesdropped on enough of these _Lahey family moments_ to know what they look like. Or to at least make an educated guess about what all they _can_ look like. He can even see the smirk spelling itself out on Cam’s face, twisting up his lips until he starts looking dangerous.

Tonight, all three Laheys are in the kitchen, from the sound of things. Their voices have that hint of reverberation that comes from their kitchen’s walls and ceiling. Derek can’t catch enough of a scent to know if Cam and Isaac got dinner tonight, not yet. There’s too much. If they did, it’s long gone by this point, and so is any of the mealtime pretense of being an average, all-American family whose most recent photographs just so happens to be conspicuously missing Cam and Isaac’s mother. Three years on and Cam’s still the only one who will bother to explain that she killed herself. Isaac was too young when she died, and their father usually won’t acknowledge any questions about her.

If Derek knows the first thing about Cam, he’ll be trying to get all the mileage that he can out of how he has his mother’s eyes, her bone structure, some undefinable air about him that’s undeniably _her_ and that Mr. Lahey, on some level, will probably never forgive him for. Why he’s doing this and to what endgame goal, Cam probably has no idea himself, and there are too many possible reactions that his dad could have here. It’s not playing with fire; it’s playing with dynamite and Molotov cocktails and expecting that you won’t end up in a fucking burn ward.

But that doesn’t matter to Cam. Derek doesn’t even need to be there or to ask Cam about it; he knows this about his best friend. Cam doesn’t care that he could get blown up in the process here because it’s so much more satisfying for him to glare at his father with the same mottled blue-green eyes that Mr. Lahey fell in love with — the ones that Eleanor Kseniya McKinnon Lahey left behind in her elder son — and _dare_ his father to stay in attack mode. Dare him to come after Isaac, while looking the closest living mirror image of Eleanor in the eye and knowing that she would’ve stood between him and Isaac, too.

_“I want him to be humiliated every time he looks me in the eye,” Cam said once, in the coldest, most matter of fact tone that Derek has ever heard coming from his mouth. “I want him to look at me and look at my eyes, and I want him to think of her. I want him to feel the shame gnawing at him even when he **isn’t** looking at me. I want him to think about her and how he’s betrayed her, how she would hate him if she knew what’s gone on in that house. Whenever he looks at me, I want every **fucking. second!** of it to burn like she’s still here to put him in his fucking place today.”_

It weren’t so close to the Full, Derek would give serious thought to punching his best friend in the mouth, just on the grounds that trying to tell him, “Be careful what you wish for, asshole” has only ever gone over like the fucking Hindenburg, even with the weight of experience backing Derek up on it.

“For _Christ’s sake_ , Dad,” Cam groans, and if Derek knows his best friend, Cam’s got to be giving his father the most exasperated of all possible stink-faces. “Seriously, do you even _listen_ to yourself when you open your mouth? Isaac didn’t do fucking _anything. All that he and Matt were doing? Was playing _Spiderman_ in the backyard with Jackson and Danny. They weren’t running off with child molesters or snorting the laundry detergent or putting wet forks in the fucking power outlets! They weren’t putting drainpipe-cleaner in the neighbors’ bird feeders! They were screwing around in the backyard, _playing fucking **Spiderman**_. Like kids who like Spiderman kinda tend to do. Which would make sense because they’re kids and all of them just so happen to _like **Spiderman**_.”_

“Not _Jackson_ ,” Isaac pipes up. Or rather blurts out. Because he’s only eight, and he knows what happens when you run your mouth off with his dad, but getting into semantics like this is still important to him. “Jackson was only going along with all of us ‘cause he got to make us all play X-Men last time so I got to pick this time and ‘cause _last_ time, he kept trying to make up some stupid iguana kinda X-Man that he could be ‘cause he hates being Scott Summers but Matt’s got dibs on Professor X, and _Danny’s_ got dibs on Beast Hank—”

“It’s _Beast_ , Shortstack. He’s _Beast_ ,” Cam says, weirdly, brokenly calm. Fucking unsettling in how quickly he shifts from trying not to yell at their fuck-face father, to sighing softly and giving Isaac one of the most rational-sounding geek-semantics tangents Derek’s ever heard from him: “At least… Just… So, his _given_ name is Hank McCoy, and his _superhero_ name is Beast. He’s not Beast Hank. That’s just mixing up his names.”

“What _ever_.” For once, Isaac echoes Derek’s sentiments completely. Even if Cam’s being slightly less aggressive than usual, it’s a pain in the ass, listening to him nitpick at people as though anybody else really gives a shit about the Vulcan psychology or the proper conjugation of Klingon verbs or the particular nuances of super-villain names and how to list them.. “Who _cares_ what _Beast Hank’s_ real name is? The point’s just that Jackson only wanted to be his made up iguana X-Man and he got to pick last time so it wasn’t his turn to pick and _Matt wanted to play **Spiderman**_ , so we played _Spiderman_.”

“Are the two of you _done_ being irrelevant at each other yet?” Mr. Lahey’s interjection makes Derek’s breath hitch in his throat. He says it with a faint growl in the back of his throat, and even just the reminder that he’s still here… That’s enough to rattle anybody. He’ll be on his feet by now, just so he can tower over his sons. “Or is this something you worked out together to cover your sorry hides. ‘Keep our father distracted so we can get off the hook for acting like a _girl_ and a self-important know-it-all and throwing what he’s given us back in his face like ingrates’?”

“It’s _not_ irrelevant!” Isaac bursts out, then no doubt sinks in his chair as he whispers, _What’s ‘irrelevant’?_ up at Cam, who hisses a basic-but-effective definition back.

With his answer in mind, Isaac picks it up again, putting on some above-it-all huff that emulates his brother’s (probably unintentional but with Cam and Isaac, who can really tell). He speaks slowly, cautiously, lost somewhere between being plucky and deferring to his Dad, just in case this helps and maybe means that nobody gets hurt: “I just… All I meant was that, like? We were playing _Spiderman_ , and Jackson called dibs on being Curt Connors so Matt couldn’t make him be the Green Goblin again. So we _had_ a bad guy to play with already. We had _Jackson_ being the bad guy. He was _already_ being Doctor Lizard—”

“ _The_ Lizard,” Cam says, still reflexively correcting the minutiae like they actually mean anything to anyone, when the big picture gets accounted for. “He’s _Doctor_ Curt Connors when he’s off the clock. His super-villain alter ego is _The_ Lizard.”

“ _Who **cares** , Cam_.” And there’s the plucky sounding Isaac, back for another round of arguing like no one’s business. “He’s a _doctor_ , isn’t he? So if he's a _doctor_ , that means he should be _Doctor_ Lizard.”

But for all Isaac’s pluckiness can flare up while he argues this with Cam, it dies down again when he goes back to their father, “Jackson was _already_ being our bad guy, Dad. It was Matt’s turn to be Spiderman, and Jackson called dibs on Curt Connors because he _hates_ Spiderman _and_ the Green Goblin and he thinks a Doctor Lizard comic would be cooler, and then _Danny_ wasn’t even doing _anything_. He was being Bilbo Baggins ‘cause he didn’t wanna _play_ with us, he wanted to read his new _book_ instead. And there’s nothing that’s all… I just mean… Nobody meant anything except for playing _Spiderman_ , Dad! I _swear_! Honest, and Cam wasn’t even there ‘til we already started! It’s not his _fault_.”

Things go quiet again and it has to be on Mr. Lahey. Maybe Cam and Isaac are waiting for his next move, but their dad is more than terrifying enough. Even without being supernatural, he could put the fear of God into just about anyone. Especially now. Especially if he has a mind to tower over his sons.

Towering like Mr. Lahey does, putting his whole body into the effect and looming with — that’s still going to work effectively on Isaac. He’s young and with how many times he’s seen their Dad lay in on Cam, he still has the good sense to be afraid and let himself back down. Right now, there’s got to be extra effort going into cowing the boys into submission — extra rage pulsing through Mr. Lahey’s body; white hot and ready to explode, no matter how controlled he keeps his tone or how cold he tries to keep his eyes — and Derek can’t even imagine how Isaac’s taking it. He can’t picture the kid’s face at all.

As he whips around the last corner and onto Hill Way, Derek’s only certain of two things. First, Isaac is definitely crowding into Cam’s personal space at this point, just like he always does, except that he’s likely clinging at his brother harder than ever.

And except for the part where Camden and Isaac have no real concept of personal space with each other. Even if they did, Isaac would cling at Cam harder than should be possible right now because it makes him feel safer, just like Cam letting Isaac sneak into bed with him when the nightmares mean that he can’t sleep. If the world started ending right this second — Four Horsemen charging in, Jörmungandr poisoning the sky, rivers running red with blood, zombies running as much as they can be said to run, all the greatest hits of _this is the way the world ends_ — and the best place to look for Isaac would be at Cam’s side. Same as always. 

On the other, though, Isaac’s only eight but he knows better than to think that there’s anything good that can come out of trying to let Cam fight everyone’s battles for them. But being _only_ eight, Isaac’s still got a pretty limited repertoire of tricks at his disposal. About the only thing he actually can do to protect Cam in return, to try and give him _some_ reminder of all the reasons why he needs to stay grounded in situations just like this one? Is throwing his arms around Cam’s waist, and burying his face in his big brother’s chest or side, and waiting for Cam to start mussing his fingers through Isaac’s curls.

(And fuck, but Derek hopes that Cam takes the hint on that one. Playing with Isaac’s hair will make the both of them calm down. As much as they can do, anyway, considering the circumstances.)

Second: it doesn’t matter how much Cam’s steeling up everything he has. It doesn’t matter how neutral or resolved he’s trying to keep his face. It doesn’t matter if he’s trying to insist that he’s not scared of his father or his father’s wrath. None of this matters because, the closer Derek gets to the house, the more he can make out of Cam’s heartbeat, of how it’s racing and pounding too fiercely for his ribcage. Something is going to explode inside his chest tonight, Derek would bet money on it.

The sad, sick part of the whole mess is: Isaac’s probably not even doing anything while he’s siting at the table. Maybe he’s reading, maybe not, but he’s definitely not up to anything he couldn’t just as easily do in his room, where his Dad could touch him but might still leave him be for the night. He could still think about himself and run there now. He still clear out and go to his goddamn room and save himself, but he won’t. He could get out of the kitchen so his Dad would only have one target to go after, so at least Mr. Lahey wouldn’t be wouldn’t be coming for Isaac, which would force Cam to cool down because without someone to protect, he wouldn’t need to go running his mouth like he doesn’t have an off-switch.

Or Cam could just try calming down _himself_ (not that Derek can _judge_ — but even _so_ , he knows that Cam knows that there are other options here). Except that—

“So there, Dad. It’s _exactly_ like I told you from the fucking start: Isaac’s fine, there’s nothing significant about this — except the part where you’re a royal fucking _dick_ and projecting your own issues onto your fucking _kid_ instead of letting Isaac be his own person. Or an actual person in the first place, not some canvas you can fuck with. Like, that’s a pretty significant something in this situation, I guess — and even if Isaac _did_ have something else going on here, he would _still_ be perfectly fucking _fine_ —”

“I’ve got no idea what in the Hell’s gotten _into you_ tonight, Camden,” Mr. Lahey says, with a faint growl in the back of his throat. He’ll be on his feet by now, just so he can tower over his sons. “But you’d best get it taken out and _put yourself back in line_ before I have to take over and do it _for_ you. Do you _really_ want me to do it _for_ you. I _will_ make you regret it.”

“Oh, cry me a fucking river, old man. What’s this when it’s at home: Colonel Edmund George Fucking Lahey, covered in shiny decorative medals from here to the fucking Gamma Quadrant, can emotionally beat the _shit_ out of everybody else under the fucking sun — _especially_ his kids, I mean, that’s just his _right_ , apparently… But soon as you throw a little bit of truth his way? Oh _maaaan_ , all of a sudden, he’s the fucking _victim_ here?”

“I am your _father_ , Camden, and you will _show me_ the appropriate respect—”

“Really? That’s not the tune that you were singing _last_ week, _Father_. You remember last week, yeah? When you didn’t want me signing up for summer Russian classes and I told you to respect my life choices and that _Russian_ is a better standout than the same fucking French and Spanish as everybody else — which I’ve already _taken_ anyway—”

“And there you go, changing the subject like you _always_ do when you get yourself into a hole. Who cares about _responsibilities_ when you can just _change the subject_ like a coward and fucking run from them instead. Here, I’m trying to talk about that goddamn disrespectful attitude you’ve gotten yourself—”

“Respect is _earned_ , not given, _**Colonel**_. I mean, not unless you mean to put out two sets of rules about it here, and well, that’d just be hypocritical. Kinda seems like, ‘conduct unbecoming’ of an officer who still commands _so. much. respect._ in his military retirement. … _Doesn't it, **sir**_ —”

“Well, I say that I’m your _father_ , and that means that you do as I tell you because _you_ don’t get a _say_ in what is or isn't hypocritical right now.”

“And I say that being my _father_ doesn’t negate the rules that _you_ established in the first place or change the fact that you’re a _hypocrite_ for changing them around like that. And according to _your_ rules? I’m _allowed_ to swear a blue-streak at you when you’re being a _bullying fucking **idiot**_ at Isaac. Especially when he and Matt _didn’t mean anything_ by what they did, which wasn’t even wrong of them to start with! And even if it _had_ been wrong? There was _nothing going on_ today. They just needed someone to be Gwen Stacy so they could play _fucking **Spiderman**_.”

—Except that this plan where Cam shuts his mouth for once and maybe comes out a little better off for doing so? The whole thing rests on Cam having a sense of self-preservation. Normally, he can pull that act off, more or less. He can fake it like he isn’t harboring impulses and thoughts he’d never dare confess. But it all goes out the window when Isaac gets added into the equation. Drag Isaac into anything and Cam suddenly grows a blatant death wish, conspicuous like he might’ve grown a second head.

“I’ve got no idea what the Hell’s gotten _into you_ tonight, Camden,” Mr. Lahey says, growling again, in a way that sends a shiver coursing up Derek’s spine — the same kind of shiver he gets from the scrape of Peter’s claws on the back of his neck. “But whatever it is that’s possessed you, I think you’d best get it taken out and _put yourself back in line_ before I have to take over and do that _for_ you. You’re meant to be setting a _good example_ for your little brother, _**not** _teaching him insubordination, or disrespect. Or _worse_ : letting him go _soft_ because you won’t bother telling him to—”__

“What d’you mean by _soft_ , though,” Cam snaps. “You mean the _obviously_ incapacitating softness that Mom supposedly left me with thanks to her letting me take art classes and watch _The Wizard of Oz_ with her? Or maybe the softness where _Into the Woods_ and _My Fair Lady_ were supposed to make me _gay_? Or maybe the softness where somehow, for _some_ totally bullshit reason, hanging out with Bennett is going to make me gay, just because _he’s_ gay? And then I’m clearly going to pass that on to Isaac because that’s obviously how sexual orientation _works_ —”

“You watch your mouth with that language, Camden _Blake_ Lahey. Or you can and go sign up for the Navy right now if you want to swear like a sailor. Go on. Get out. If you’re gonna keep that disrespectful tongue in your head, then go. Forget the family, forget our legacy, and _forget your little brother._ Forget the swim team, forget being the Captain if you earn it, forget _everything_ that matters, _forget **Isaac**_ , and just go slum it with all of the _second-rate queers_ who went into the Navy because they couldn’t cut it anywhere else. We wouldn’t even be _having_ this discussion if you’d kept a better eye on him like you’re supposed to do — or did you just stop being his brother in the past few—”

“‘Telling Isaac that he can’t have _harmless fun_ with his friends’ is _not_ part of the older brother _job description_ , Dad!” Something drags across linoleum, and another something clatters to the floor. The telltale smack of palms against a kitchen table rings out, and Cam — on his feet now, no doubt about it, and almost definitely getting in his father’s face — lets out a snarl: “You’ll _excuse me_ if I believe in giving my brother the love and trust that _you’re_ obviously not capable of.”

Silence again — the sort that can only lead to one place, and that place is nowhere anybody wants to go. Derek’s heart sinks in his chest and everything feels cold in the same way that comes from getting a bucket of ice water dumped on your head. He closes in on the house, tries to keep quiet as he comes to a stop — he tries to move quickly while sticking to whatever shadows he can find — doesn’t matter that everyone in the house is human, Derek’s only going to make things worse if they catch him while he’s skulking around back here, trying to hide his bike half-decently. If he gets caught, Mr. Lahey finds out about all the times when Cam’s hidden Derek in his room for a night or three. If Mr. Lahey finds out about that, Cam’s in Hell until who even knows when — never mind what all his Dad will do to him and Isaac, the threat of him getting _creative_ this time, like he’s always said he could. And if that happens and it’s on Derek—

“Just what, _exactly_ , do you think you’re trying to say to me, _boy_?” That low, gruff warning hits the air and Derek’s heart jolts. He barely catches himself in time to get down into the backyard hedges without making enough noise to get caught. And, noticing nothing, Mr. Lahey digs in at Cam again: “If you want to run your mouth off like that, how about you try having the nerve to _back it up_. Say what you mean or _don’t say anything at all_.”

“Okay, I’ll say what I mean, _sir_ —”

Cam’s sneering at their father, now. Not just running his mouth off but letting himself use the same tone of voice he uses when he talks about his Dad with Derek and Bennett and Kara, when Mr. Lahey’s not around to hear him doing it. He’s probably letting his lips curl _just so_ as he gets closer to his Dad than Isaac — and that’s not a good sign. It never leads anywhere good and it’s _never_ a good sign. And the fact that Cam is using that _honest_ tone with Mr. Lahey, making everything he thinks about his father clearer than a cloudless sky?

That’s even worse than the fact that Camden’s trying to go in on his dad in return. Crouching deeper in the hedges, Derek digs his nails into his palm and tries to will Cam not to finish this thought, whatever it ends up being — _don’t say it, don’t say it, whatever’s waiting for you to say it, **don’t fucking say it Camden** , shutting up for him is **not** that hard, isn’t it bad enough, what you get already when you **don’t** deliberately egg him on—_

The wishing doesn’t work (just like always): “None of this has _anything_ to do with Spiderman or Isaac being Gwen Stacy or any of it. You’re just going after Isaac now because you can’t handle the idea that your son is an individual person, because you want to _control_ him. Because the idea of a son who’s _not_ your goddamn marionette _scares you shitless_ —”

_**Whack!**_ — Even without his heightened senses, Derek could have heard that blow. Probably cracking clear across Cam’s face. Another round of excuses Cam’s going to have to make at school. He’ll keep going — he has to have that endgame in mind already — and then it’ll all get so much worse.

But first, Cam huffs and says, “Isaac, isn’t it bed-time for you? Go get yourself cleaned up, okay. I’ll check on you in a minute. Just _go. **Now.**_ ”

Isaac’s the rub, of course. With Cam, everything probably comes back to Isaac sooner or later. Now more than ever, things come back to him and to keeping him safe. Or in this case, keeping him from having to watch Cam provoking their father any further — which Mr. Lahey has to sense, because the next sound from the kitchen is a swift, hard **_whump!_** and Isaac gasping while Cam chokes back a groan. All Derek can manage to think is, _God, how bad is **this** bruise gonna be? Does he need to go to the emergency room? What’s he going to tell anyone when they ask about it?_

But Isaac’s got an entirely different notion here, and a whole different set of leverage. He could go and hide like any kid with a basic grasp on How To Keep Yourself Alive 101-level concepts, so that Cam, who’s failed that class at least fifty times by now, will stop all but asking their Dad to do his fucking worst, take what he’s provoked, and then shut up because standing up for himself is nowhere on Cam’s priorities list.

In fact, so much of this trouble could have been avoided if Isaac would’ve just made a break for his fucking room and left Cam to either shut up or stand up to their father for himself, in earnest, something that he’s done so infrequently, Derek can’t even think of an example. Maybe, they all could have skipped so much of this, if Isaac would’ve bolted at the start of everything—

“I don’t want to!” There’s another rush of scrambling around, soft footsteps padding on the floor. As one of the twigs prods at Derek’s neck, he wishes he could see into the kitchen from here. He’d bet Isaac’s at Cam’s waist again, and he sorely hopes so. “I don’t wanna go alone, Cam. _Please_ come with me? _Please_? You said we’d read more _Harry Potter_ before I went to bed tonight, remember?

—But taking cues from his brother, Isaac won’t leave Cam behind. He never does. Not even when Cam’s on a blatant self-destruct course, like he’s been since Derek got a fix on their voices. Tonight’s just the latest example of this principle in action. Every single time this happens, the kid sticks right next to Cam as always, all mop-top curls and skinny legs, attached to his brother’s hip in the same way that Derek used to attach himself to Laura’s.

Not that Derek really blames the kid. It’s the one thing about Isaac himself that Derek actually understands, and the one thing about him that makes any sense without getting filtered through the lens of Cam. It’s the one thing about Isaac that’s always made perfect sense because Derek knows what the kid has going through his head right now, all because he’s had it running through his own on more than one occasion.

Derek understands it all because, when your older sibling’s the one who keeps you safe and they’re the one person in the world who loves you more than anybody, they become your sun, your moon, your white knight, and your own personal Jesus, all wrapped up in one convenient package. When they’re your one true superhero, their expectations are the ones you’d break yourself in half to meet.

When they’re the one who puts you to bed at night, who wakes you up in the morning, who looks out for you and makes sure that you actually have a lunch at school — when it feels like they’re the only one who really loves you — your older sibling is the one person who you’d kill or die for. You wouldn’t even need to think about it, really. Not without a _seriously_ good reason, anyway. Because everything hangs on your older sibling, and they’re the only person who can really make you feel safe.

As safe as you _can_ feel, anyway, when there’s still a person in your life who’ll tell you, “It’s too bad that your brother’s an _ingrate_ , Isaac. He ought to appreciate how you’re the only reason he’s not getting _all_ of what he deserves for this.”

There’s another _thump!_ sound, but it’s softer, at least. And all Cam does is huff at it. “I’m not an _ingrate_ just because I’ll tell you the truth, Dad,” he says. “So, I’ll just… I’ll get Isaac into bed. You can go crawl into a bottle now. Or whatever it is you do with yourself when you’re not pretending to be a fucking _father_.”

*** * * * * ***

Waiting is still the worst, the _hardest_ part of this or anything. Derek’s not even sure how much the time passes while he’s in the hedges.

Trying to keep track of Cam reading to Isaac from _Chamber of Secrets_ doesn’t help. Cam’s voice is too soothing, and without an active source of excitement to keep track of, Derek’s head starts reeling.

Everything’s settling down but he’s still moving at the speed of running away and into way more than he bargained for — just getting his head between his knees and trying to focus on his breathing leaves Derek’s chest clenching in around itself and his stomach protesting, threatening to upchuck everything on the soil and wood-chips, even if Mr. Lahey would find some way to blame Cam and Isaac—

“…Derek?”

He gasps too deeply and too quickly. Jolts up out of the hedges. Now, everything’s really spinning around him — Derek’s going to pass out, there’s no way he can get through this on his own — except he doesn’t pass out. His legs wobble but they don’t give way. Still, it’s a long moment before Derek can focus enough to make out the bony-shouldered figure standing on the porch in his t-shirt and boxers.

It’s only a slightly shorter one before he manages to nod. “Hey, Cam?”

“…Didn’t want to spend the full moon with Peter nearby?” Cam says with a sigh. “And if, ‘yes’? Some head’s up would’ve been nice,  werewolf boy .”

 

Even though he nods, Derek’s not completely sure he understands. There are at least ten other questions lurking underneath the one that Cam just asked him, and even without an idea of what they are or could be, Derek can _feel_ the rush of anxiety starting to well up again. At least, from what he can make out under the mix of moonlight and porch-light, he doesn’t think Cam’s got the energy to ask too much of him right now. All he’s got left in him is going to watching Derek under a mind-reader’s microscope.

That settles things down in Derek’s chest a bit, at least. So, he nods again. “Tell me how you figured out the werewolf part and you’ll have a head’s up next time.”

The only thing Cam does is shrug and shake his head. “Derek, I’ve known you since we were _eight_ , and you’re about as subtle as a brick, okay?” He sighs, and looks back at the door. “Can you just get your stuff and take a raincheck on the explanation? Seriously. Let’s get in my room before Dad gets bored with his bottle of Johnnie Walker.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> The references to, "Edmund's war" are meant to specifically be about the U.S. invasion and military action in Vietnam.
> 
> Pretty much all of the Lahey family headcanons in here have been jointly built up over the past year and a half with Astrid/lysaacs @ tumblr/warriorpoodle, and this one in particular originates in Daniel Sharman's headcanon about the Laheys being a military legacy family. The idea of Eleanor killing herself was also Daniel's originally; Astrid is the one who came up with the given names for Mr. and Mrs. Lahey. Putting Edmund's service in Vietnam was mostly my contribution, partly with some logic/fuzzy math that got [explained here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1683815) (under the rationale for having Alice in Chains' "Rooster" on that mix), and partly out of personal self-indulgence because of having important people in my offline life with direct ties to Vietnam.
> 
> The two Vietnam-era songs that Cam brings up in particular are Creedence Clearwater Revival's, "[Fortunate Son](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ec0XKhAHR5I)" and Country Joe McDonald's "[I Feel Like I'm Fixin' To Die](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dATyZBEeDJ4)" ([alternate version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LBdeCxJmcAo) of the same performance, from Woodstock 1969; seriously, trying to find this song on youtube will give you a _ton_ of different recordings, both live and studio).


End file.
